


Sugar and bites and all things nice

by soy_em



Series: All because of the smiles [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Sex, First Time, Jealous Sam Winchester, Lapdance, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Possessive Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: Sam can't remember what happened when he got so very, very drunk, and Dean takes every opportunity to tease him about it. When Sam finally does find out, at first he's mortified. But then he starts to think... and comes up with a plan.





	Sugar and bites and all things nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/gifts).



> A very belated Happy Birthday Present for Nisaki, who is always there to encourage and enjoy being a part of this fandom. Thanks for prompting me to write this sequel and sorry it took so long. And is so late for your birthday...
> 
>  
> 
> Also, big thanks to [Alulaspeaks](https://alulaspeaks.tumblr.com/) for the speedy beta - thank you so much!

Thump, thump, thump. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

Sam’s stomach roils, and it’s all he can do to will the nausea down.

Piercing light splits through his head and gingerly, he pulls the pillow over his pounding head. 

There’s no way he’s dealing with today yet.

*** 

The door slams and blinding midday light spills through the motel room. Sam groans, wondering how the world could be such a cruel place. Turning over onto his stomach, it takes another minute for him to be sure he won’t vomit.

“Rise and shine, Sammy. Checkout time.”

The words are loud and obnoxious and don’t make any sense.

“Wake up, Sammy.”

Sharp pain stings across his shin, where its sticking out from under the duvet; but it’s nothing in comparison to the pain in his head.

“Fuck me, we’re really not going anywhere today, are we?”

The unpleasant light recedes, and dimly, Sam hears the tv switch on, the artificial popping of cowboy guns providing a comforting enough backdrop for him to fall back asleep.

***

When Sam wakes up again, his stomach is growling for a different reason. It feels like there’s an empty hole in his torso, and Sam can barely process other thoughts for how hungry he is. He sits up in bed, head still swimming a little, and blinks blearily at the room.

“Dean?” he asks, not seeing his brother, but aware that Dean is close by. 

The toilet flushes and Dean appears in the doorway. “Ah, sleeping not-so-beauty,” he says, mocking. “Rejoined the living, I see. Nice hair.”

Sam stares for a moment, struck by the way Dean seems gilded by the light behind him, and then pats absently at his head. There’s definitely a huge strand of hair sticking up.

“There any food?” he asks. His voice is rough, his mouth furry, but he forces the words out anyway, worried that his stomach will vault out of his throat if he doesn’t eat something soon.

“Got you the world’s finest salad,” Dean says, mouth twitching. Sam’s filled with dismay; the thought of eating salad right now is not at all appealing. It probably won’t even touch the hunger in his stomach. But Dean has done a nice thing. 

“Oh, ok, thanks Dean,” he says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Dean bursts out laughing. “I did not buy your hungover ass a salad,” he wheezes. “There’s a chicken burger, fries, all the trimmings on the side for you, and a coke too.”

Sam’s heart fills with love, and he stumbles out of the bed on wobbly legs to snatch up the food. Dropping into the nearest chair, he starts wolfing it down.

“So, about last night,” Dean says. He’s behind Sam, so Sam can’t see the mockery on his face, but he can hear it in his brother’s voice just fine. Frantically, he thinks back to the night before, now that he can hear his own thoughts over the grumbling in his stomach. But there are so few memories. He can remember being at the strip club with Dean, the glitter of sequins and the boom of bass, shots of whiskey and Dean being happy; but after that, it’s all one sparkly blur. 

“Last night,” he says slowly, trying to buy himself time. 

“Oh yeah, last night. Specifically, the end of last night.” There’s outright glee in Dean’s voice, and Sam is painfully worried. He puts his chicken burger down slowly, trying to think.

“I was drunk,” he says, hoping that’s enough.

“Hell yeah you were!” Dean crosses the room until he’s in front of Sam, and steals a couple of fries, chomping them obnoxiously. He peers into Sam’s face. “Oh my god, you don’t remember!”

“I do,” Sam insists. He knows Dean will never let him live down a memory blackout, never mind what he actually might have done.

“You don’t!” Dean crows. “Oh my god, this is too good.” He sounds like he might combust from joy, and Sam is too tired and hungover to keep up the pretense.

“Ok fine,” he snaps. “Why don’t you tell me then?”

“Oh hell no.”

“Dean.” Sam is perilously close to whining, and about a step away from begging. 

“This is going to be so much fun.”

Sam throws the burger box at Dean, but his hand is still so shaky that it flies way off target. Grumbling, he stalks across the room and throws himself back into bed, pulling the covers over his head.

***

Over the next few days, Sam becomes increasingly frustrated with his brother. Dean teases him constantly about his missing memories.

“Oh Sammy, you were so funny,” Dean says as they sit in the Impala.

“Having a beer, Sam? Careful, you might lose even more memories.” Sam takes two beers out of their motel fridge just on principle, and downs the first one with a scowl. 

“Want me to buy you some glitter, Sam, so that you can recreate your evening? Oh that’s right, you can’t remember it!” Dean cackles as they speed through Walmart, throwing the pot of glitter back on the shelf. 

Sam grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, hoping that he’ll remember sooner or later. Preferably before he strangles his brother.

***

It takes a while for things to come to a head. They’ve salted and burned another ghost before it happens, an unlikely second easy win in a row; so unusual it has Sam’s gut churning a little. Their time on the case had been peppered with Dean’s now-familiar teasing; Dean’s taken to doing a teeny tiny little dance of joy whenever he reminds Sam about his drunken night that has Dean’s hips shimmying in a way that’s not at all hypnotic. That twinges something in Sam’s mind, every time, but it’s not enough to bring the memories back.

They’re sprawled in the motel room, Sam at the table, tapping absently at his laptop while Dean’s on the floor, back against the bed and legs spread wide. Dean’s got a whisky in one hand and a beer by his side; the whisky he’d poured for Sam is sitting next to Dean’s laptop. Dean sighs, tipping his head back as he stretches out his undoubtedly sore back muscles, and Sam notes the the half-moons of his eyelashes and the sharp cut of his jaw in the same half-repressed way he always does.

“I needed this,” Dean says, tipping back his whisky in one. The idea strikes Sam so suddenly that he can’t believe he didn’t think of it before; if he’s ever going to get Dean to tell him what happened, surely whisky is the key.

“Here,” he says, trying to keep the smile from his face as he hands the bottle across to his brother. 

With a little coaxing, Dean goes through five large whiskies in half an hour, as well as two bottles of beer. His brother’s alcohol tolerance is legendary, but Sam can see him starting to waver at the edges, his smile loosening and his gestures becoming more expansive. Dean’s in a good mood tonight, as he always is after a simple salt and burn, and Sam knows this is his chance - as long as he stays sober himself. He’s careful to look like he’s drinking more than he is; waiting for Dean to look away before topping up his drink with water and taking ostentatious sips. 

He leads Dean onto his endless list of drunken shenanigans. “Remember that time Bobby fell asleep in that old jeep out back and we couldn’t find him for hours?” he asks, starting with a relatively innocent one. 

Dean snorts. “Drunken old fool,” he says fondly. Sam had only been about 10 at the time, and he and Dean had spent hours trying to find Bobby when he hadn’t returned from town.

“Remember that time with the purple nurples and that girl was sick on my shoes?” 

“Remember that time when you ran straight into that lamppost?”

“Remember that time when you came home with panties on your head and dad freaked out?”

They trade stories for a while, the vast majority about Dean. Sam’s enjoying himself, despite the anticipation building in his stomach as he waits for exactly the right moment to ask his question. 

“Feels like most of these are about you,” he says, hoping Dean will take the bait. 

“Not my fault you’re boring, Samantha,” Dean says. Sam grimaces.

“Well, I was the last one to get stupid drunk,” he reminds his brother, who giggles. 

“You sure were.” Dean gives him a bright grin. 

“Shame I can’t remember what I did. Kinda makes it difficult to be embarrassed.”

There’s a pause. Sam’s sure that Dean isn’t going to fall for it. But then his brother is doubling over with laughter

“You gave me a lapdance,” Dean wheezes. “You did a little striptease for me, and then you fell into my lap and you gave me a lapdance.” Tears are streaming from Dean’s eyes as he remembers. “And you kept asking me if you danced better than our waitress!”

Sam’s gut turns to ice. “Hilarious,” he says, voice choked and face flaming red.

“Completely hilarious,” Dean agrees, still rocking with laughter.

Sam pours himself a large whisky and downs it in one. 

***

Sam ponders on Dean’s revelations over the next few days as they head back to the bunker. At first, he squirms with mortification every time he thinks about it. He obviously made a complete ass out of himself, both with the dancing but also with the emergence of his never very well-buried insecurity about Dean preferring other people to Sam. But as the days pass, and they arrive home and settle back into their routine, that feeling passes and Sam begins to think, to probe, deeper into how he feels about the situation. 

Now that the cat is out of the bag, Dean’s teasing intensifies, but Sam finds it easier to deal with because he knows the full details. The nagging fear of the unknown has disappeared, and he’s able to fight back.

He still can’t believe that’s what his drunken mind had tried to do though. Not least because dancing has never been his forte; but also because he spent years repressing all those feelings and he thought they were long gone. Thought he was left with nothing but standard little brother jealousy. Dean’s constant ribbing, much more detailed about what Sam had said, as well as what he’d done, makes it clear that’s not the case.

“Not my fault you liked it so much you can’t stop talking about it,” he finally snaps at Dean one day. A pretty pink blush spreads across Dean’s cheeks despite the immediate, “I liked it like I like salad”. The rest of the drive is silent, Dean’s eyes firmly on the road and Sam’s mind whirling.

*** 

Sam’s so caught up in his own thoughts over the next couple of days that he’s barely able to articulate words. He goes running a lot, taking himself out across the crisp Kansas countryside and building his stamina up so that its better than it’s ever been. It gives him time to ponder on what happened, and what he thinks he saw; time he needs if he’s not going to fuck this up.

His feelings for Dean have always been complicated, shrouded in layers of love and angst and need and rebellion. When he’d been a teenager, lust had drowned out almost everything else, a constant reflection on how beautiful Dean was, a refrain on how Sam craved his touch. He’d been painfully jealous of every girl Dean smiled at (and there were a lot); and that didn’t even come close to how he’d felt about the few boys who had caught his brothers eye. Not that Dean had ever acted on that, to Sam’s knowledge; but Dean’s always appreciated beauty. He’d even been jealous of Dean’s few friends, resentful of any time his brother spent with other people.

Even back then, he’d known that it wasn’t healthy. He’d made his plans, quietly and thoroughly, and left for Stanford in a blaze of fury and self-loathing. When he’d come back, all those complicated layers had been overwhelmed with grief and his quest for vengeance, and his life with Dean since has featured copious amounts of repression. But now, his own drunken actions and Dean’s interesting reaction have blown that all away, and Sam feels like he’s drowning in years of feelings.

Dean notices, of course; since they’ve settled in the bunker, Dean’s let out his inner-mom more than ever before. He doesn’t say anything; that’s not their way. But plates of pancakes appear in front of Sam, their dinner features more green than usual and interesting books find their way to Sam’s reading pile. Sam’s heart overflows with love - the ordinary, brotherly kind - at the way Dean cares for him; even as he’s dealing with the fact that their love might not be all that brotherly after all. 

Sam’s moment of clarity comes in the middle of a field, as he’s bent over, panting harshly with his hands braced on his thighs. The wind whistles around him, rustling the corn; and Sam might as well be the only person on earth. He feels so small, so alone, and the weight of all their averted apocalypses and last-minute world saving actions presses down on him. 

What if he and Dean were the last two people on earth? What if he was the last person - if Dean somehow didn’t make it? The thought is too painful, and Sam shoves it aside. But what if _they_ were last? Would it be worth holding back then? Would they continue to repress their feelings because of the taboo of incest, if there was no society to condemn them?

The answer is obvious. Of course they wouldn’t. But it makes Sam wonder why they’re bothering to do so now, when they don’t follow any of society’s other rules. Why hold back on something that will make them both happy, for the sake of something neither of them believes in? 

He takes a deep breath and heads back to the bunker. His existential crisis is over; now all he needs is a plan. 

***

Sam has fuzzy memories of his last plan now, and he knows where it went wrong. Too much drinking, too little dancing. That’s easy enough to fix. And while he doesn’t want to directly emulate the strippers that Dean loves so much, a better outfit will definitely be in order. Nothing too sparkly, of course; but not his standard plaid either. 

He rifles through his closet until he finds an old black tshirt; not so tight he’ll struggle to get it off, but it shows off the lines of his body well enough. And he has an old pair of jeans that cling to his legs like butter; they’re soft and flexible, just what he’s looking for. He adds a pair of worn sneakers, easy to kick off. His last touch is to swipe Dean’s hair gel and run the slightest bit through his hair, giving it a tousled look; he remembers Jess doing this for him in college and how she’d loved the result. He thinks it looks a bit silly, but if he follows the rest of his plan, it should be the last thing Dean’s focusing on.

Dean’s eyes snap to him the minute he walks into the war room for dinner. More importantly, his gaze stays locked on Sam; not on his face, but on his chest. Bingo.

Dinner is almost silent, tension hanging heavy across the table. Now that he’s committed to this, Sam figures he might as well go all out. He makes sure to lick his fingers ostentatiously, moan happily around mouthfuls of food, and stretch enticingly at the end of the meal. Dean’s gaze flutters between Sam and his food; his cheeks are reddened and his mouth turned down in a frown. That gives Sam pause, until he catches Dean’s eye; his brother’s pupils are visibly dilated before he looks back at his food. Dean’s clearly struggling with this thing between them, as Sam has for so many years, and it’s time for Sam to help him. 

“Music?” he asks, heading towards the thrift-store boombox Dean had bought a few months ago. Dean hums in agreement, his eyes fixed on Sam’s ass. Sam smirks. He so often shrouds himself in layers that he forgets the impact that a simple t-shirt and jeans combo can have.

Once Zeppelin is pouring from the speakers, carefully chosen to relax his brother, Sam moves on to stage two of his plan. Clearing the table (he doesn’t want any accidents later), he returns from the kitchen with a few bottles of beer. Just because he wants less drinking, doesn’t mean there shouldn’t be any at all. He’s going to need a bit of dutch courage to see through stage 3 of his plan, never mind stage four. (He pushes thoughts of stage four down viciously to quell his nerves).

They sit quietly for a while, sipping their beers. Sam loves that he and Dean don’t need to talk all the time, to fill every second with nonsense. He relaxes back into his chair, spreading his legs wide and tipping his head back. It takes a moment, but Dean’s gaze soon flickers to Sam’s crotch, just as he’d suspected. Sam’s starting to wonder how he’s missed this, all these years. Or maybe Dean’s feelings have also been reawakened by Sam’s actions.

The cd trickles to a stop, and Dean shoots him a half-lidded look, filled with contentment. Sam stretches again, and changes the cd, putting stage three of his plan into motion.

The music that blares out of the speaker is a big mood change. “Hair rock, Sammy? Really?” Dean’s bitching more for the sake of it than out of real distaste, and Sam ignores it, just as he’s supposed to. He takes a sip of his beer and locks eyes with his brother. 

“I like hair metal,” he says mildly. “Good to dance to.”

He can almost see the thoughts flicker across Dean’s face. His brother is remembering the last time Sam danced, as he’s supposed to. _Loves Bites_ comes on, and Sam stands. Dean’s gulp is audible, even above the music; his throat swallowing convulsively as his legs spread a little wider. Sam’s pretty sure he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

“ _I don't wanna touch you too much baby, 'Cos making love to you might drive me crazy,_ ” Sam sings lightly, swaying his hips as he walks into the kitchen for another beer.

Dean’s sweating slightly when Sam walks back in, his eyes wide like a trapped animal. Sam feels the same way, but there’s no time to think about it; it’s time for stage four. If he doesn’t act now, he’ll miss his chance. 

_Pour Some Sugar on Me_ blares from the speakers, and Sam allows his mouth to turn up in a smile. He suspects it might be described as predatory, if he ever thought of himself that way, because he knows full well that this is Dean’s favourite stripper song ever. 

“See, this song,” he says, soft and intent as he moves towards Dean, “is just perfect for dancing. Want me to show you?” 

Dean’s choked, “ _Sammy_ ,” is definitely not a no. Sam’s not going to try anything fancy, not going to risk making an ass out of himself again (unless he’s read this completely wrong) so he just shimmies his hips a little, running his hands up his chest and into his hair.

Dean’s legs are spread so open now that even Sam’s wide shoulders would fit between them, and he’s panting a little. Sam’s tempted to drop to his knees, but he can save that for later; for now its best to follow his plan. He lets his hands play with them hem of his shirt, pulling it up a fraction before dropping it back down. Crossing his arms, he grips the edges of the t-shirt. “Want me to?” he asks Dean, his voice coming out so low he almost doesn’t recognise it. 

It takes Dean a moment to formulate a reply, but when he does, its fervent. “ _Yes_.” 

Sam takes it slow. He’s a lot more confident taking off his clothes than he is dancing, and he needs to make the most of that part of his plan. Dean’s eyes on his nipples are so heavy he can almost feel it, shivers racing down his spine at the hungry look on his brother’s face. _What took us so long to do this?_ Now that they’ve started, the tension between them is so obvious. 

Sam’s t-shirt lands in Dean’s lap, and Sam slides his fingers down his chest to his belt buckle. Dean’s mouth opens, tongue licking across his pretty lips, and Sam has to close his eyes for a moment before he loses control of the situation. A quick kick sees off Sam’s sneakers, and then he’s popping the buttons of his jeans open, one by one, Def Leppard matching the screaming in his blood. 

Sam wiggles until his pants drop down, revealing the tan skin of his legs inch by inch. Turning around, he shimmies until he’s out of them, left only his his black boxer briefs, which do little to hide how Sam’s feeling.

A quick glance shows him that Dean seems to have regained some of his legendary confidence. The panicked look is gone, replaced by something that this time, Sam has absolutely no hesitation in calling predatory. “Gonna give me a lapdance, little brother?” Dean asks, and Sam almost comes right then and there. Apparently, he’s not only no longer bothered by the brother thing, he’s actively turned on by it. 

“I don’t know,” Sam replies. “You gonna make it worth my while?”

Dean looks him up and down, slow and deliberate. His eyes catch at Sam’s boxers, his nipples, his mouth. “I think that could be arranged.”

“Well then,” Sam says. He steps slowly towards his brother. “Let’s discuss terms.”

There’s a yank, and Sam abruptly finds himself in Dean’s lap, legs spread wide across Dean’s thighs. Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s ass, pulling him close. With a flash, Sam remembers this, how easily Dean had manhandled him before. “Christ,” he mutters, rolling his hips. 

“Mmm,” Dean agrees, tip of his nose brushing Sam’s; a subtle tease. “That’s the kind of dancing I like.” Dean’s hips move up to meet his, setting an easy, fluid rhythm, and Sam can’t keep his eyes open, no matter how much he wants to. He buries his hands in Dean’s short hair, and holds on tight.

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, hand cupping his face. Before Sam can reply, lips meet his and they’re kissing, wild and messy and deep, no time for sweet. Sam feels unstrung, no longer tethered to the earth, as his senses spiral out of his control. Dean’s other hand is under his boxers, pressing firmly into his ass, and Sam’s crashing towards orgasm far faster than he’d like. 

“Dean,” he whines, pawing at his brother’s pants. Dean takes a second to push his jeans and boxers down, just far enough, and they’re suddenly skin on skin, at least where it matters. Dean’s hand wraps around them both, callouses catching on the sensitive skin of Sam’s cock, and that’s all Sam can take. He’s been half turned on, half terrified for hours, and he’s wanted this since he was thirteen years old. He figures he’s allowed one quick finish. 

“Dean,” he says again, more urgently. Dean kisses him, tongue swirling against his own before teeth nip at Sam’s lips, and Dean’s hand and hips speed up, moving with greater urgency. “C’mon, Sammy, pour that sugar over me,” Dean says, low and wicked and laughing. It’s so Dean, so utterly cheesy and yet so stupidly, unbearably sexy at the same time, that it tips Sam over the edge. He comes with a cry, head thunking down onto Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean comes a few minutes later, Sam’s hips still working against his and Sam’s mouth attached lazily to his neck, sucking a hickey that Dean hopefully won’t recognise as a mark of possession. Dean’s beautiful when he comes, cheeks flushed and lips bitten scarlet, all the strong muscles of his body tensing. Sam stores up the memory for the future, just in case.

Dean’s hands trace across Sam’s back, trembling. Sam presses closer, hoping that this wasn’t an epic mistake. 

“Sammy,” Dean says eventually, sounding strained. Sam’s heart goes cold, and he buries his head deeper into Dean’s shoulder, his arms tightening around Dean’s neck. “Sammy,” Dean says, more intently, giving him a little shake. 

“What?” Sam murmurs, but its so muffled Dean probably can’t make it out. 

Dean laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest to Sam’s heart. “I know you’re a clingy little shit, but you’re also really fucking heavy and you’re breaking my legs.”

“Oh,” Sam says, scrambling upwards on shaking legs. Dean follows him up, ostentatiously shaking his legs out as Sam watches, waiting helplessly for a reaction. They’re still so close that Sam’s bare chest is almost brushing against Dean’s t-shirt. 

Sam’s almost at the point of pure panic when Dean’s hands cup his cheek again, and he’s pulled down into a kiss. This time it is slow and tender; years of love poured into a moment. 

“C’mon,” Dean says, tugging at Sam’s wrist. “I bet you get real bitchy if you don’t get your pillow talk, Samantha.” He heads off towards his room, Sam following. He’s shocked when Dean pulls him down onto the bed, shifting around until Sam’s head is pillowed on Dean’s chest; but once they’re settled, this too feels oddly familiar. 

“Did we do this last time too?” Sam asks, too sleepy and content to be embarrassed. 

“Yup, you wouldn’t let go of me. Jealous little Sammy.”

There’s far too much self-satisfaction in Dean’s voice, so Sam pinches him, hard. 

“I just don’t like it when you prefer other people’s dancing to mine.”

Dean snorts, but its fond. “No chance of that, Sammy. I prefer everything of yours.”

His hand settles on Sam’s ass, and Sam eyes the bite mark on Dean’s neck with satisfaction. He plans to renew it every day, so he never has to worry about stupid friendly waitresses ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).


End file.
